Hidden Faces

It was overcast again that day, but the sun’s heat would not be denied. Tart reached down to straighten their skirt, hoping to improve airflow somewhat. Ostensibly, this was their day off, and they were just taking a little stroll, aimlessly wandering the various streets of Starlight. The reality was far more complicated: today, they were a spy for the Great Sage of Rain. Maybe less of a spy and more of a private investigator.

It wasn’t something they were doing as the Great Sage’s apprentice— not officially, anyway. Something like that would go against the Sage’s Code of Ethics, and the Great Sage had been present for the writing of that very code. No, that would have been easy to refuse, because even a Great Sage had some checks and balances. Knowing that, he’d asked them in another capacity— as a citizen of Starlight.

The city had no central government per se, but the Great Sage considered himself to be in a position of responsibility, and therefore authority— A village elder of sorts. Since he was roughly five centuries old, there was no meaningful competition. He had only spent one hundred and seventy-nine of those years in Starlight, but that was enough experience to notice things. Specifically, the Great Sage had a convincing argument that the city felt it was being invaded.

It was a subtle thing, but clear when you knew what to look for. Unoccupied living spaces were being converted into a solid fence around the city’s edge. The streets were rearranging themselves to become just a little more confusing. The problem with the city, though, was that it wasn’t actually any better at diagnosing problems than the average person. Just as the average person might blame outside factors for their internal struggles, the city frequently made the mistake of building walls to keep out a threat that had already infiltrated. All it knew was that something powerful and magical was nearby, threatening both the city itself and its residents. Something with power on the level of a demon… or a god.

If Tart hadn’t known the Great Sage as well as they did, they’d think this was all baseless paranoia. As it was, they now knew that it was well-placed paranoia. In the end, seeing as how they had a stake in the matter, they’d agreed. The Great Sage had identified two likely troublemakers, and Tart had been assigned the less likely one. In other words, they were probably wasting their time today. So it goes.

Their target was the witch who had moved onto Hub-and-Spoke Mountain a few months ago, one Mx. Undermoon. For the most part, they’d served to add a little local colour, and hadn’t made a nuisance of themselves. However, the fact of the matter was that witches were inherently dangerous. This eccentric little cat had made a blood pact with some kind of divine, eldritch, or demonic power, and were living in the seat of the nearest god to the city— the mountain. Even if they seemed benign, they couldn’t be ignored entirely.

Initial research had revealed that the witch frequented one specific magic shop in town called Second Steel. It was artificer-owned, specializing in the sale and repair of enchanted objects. This was not Tart’s area of expertise, but it seemed odd to visit a shop like that multiple times per week, yet this was what the witch did, according to chatter around town. Truth be told, Tart had no clue what a witch could or would be doing to threaten the city, so they decided to gather as much information as they can, draw what conclusions they could, and ask the Great Sage’s opinion.

In this part of town, where many of the artificers set up shop, Tart was a little out of their element. They were distracted enough that they paid too much attention to one shop window, full of oddly-shaped magical tools of indeterminate use, and not enough to the sparsely-populated street. For this reason, they literally bumped into someone who had stopped to look into the same window.

Tart muttered some apologies while straightening their glasses— they were magical, but still capable of being jostled out of alignment— as the other party did something similar. He was a towering, awkward bird metahuman with vibrant blue-and-green plumage and a very casual, loose suit, and he looked back at Tart first with a tiny bit of annoyance and then a tiny bit of confusion. Tart didn’t have any difficulty understanding why: This person was familiar, and yet not quite familiar. Chances were good that the two had met, and this bird was trying to place them just as they were trying to place him.

They’d met a tall bird only a few days ago, but the plumage was wrong. An adjustment to the coloration? No, there was something tugging at their memory. Glancing up, the rough and uneven crest of feathers adorning his head jogged their memory enough to speak it aloud. The bird’s expression suggested he’d reached his conclusion just a little later, but it was the bird who spoke first. If it had been a competition, Tart would call it a draw.

“Oh, I know you! You’re the Sage’s assistant, right?” The high and nasal voice would have been a dead givaway if Tart had needed it. Even for bird metahumans, who had to learn to talk with a beak, it was distinct. Only, it was being used a little differently than they were used to.

“That’s right. You dropped by the other day for an interview with the Great Sage.” They emphasized it a bit too much, but it was important. The Great Sage did not appreciate having his title truncated.

“Yes. I must send him a thank you note, finding time to indulge my research. Sorry, I’m not sure I recall your name.”

“Tartarus Berling. Just call me Tart. And you’re Professor Pablo Mociño, if I remember correctly.”

“Ah, your memory beats mine.” The professor plopped down on a bench, grown by the city in the space between shop windows. That was bad; it indicated he was considering this a ‘stop and have a long conversation’ moment, and Tart had a job to do. But then, there wasn’t actually any rush. Maybe some light chatter wasn’t so bad. The Professor had traveled to Starlight for research reasons, and Tart simply found it interesting, though they had no background in anthropology.

“Keeping track of the Great Sage’s appointments is simply one of my jobs,” they said, dropping into the seat next to him. “Your coloration is different today. Am I correct in thinking I’m talking to one of the others?”

The Professor was able to smile, a slight turning up of the sides of his mouth that was a very deliberate affordance common in avian souls. “Right you are. We have different colored plumage, though I’ve been considering something more daring to differentiate us lately. Ah, not to try and solicit free work from you.”

“Nothing to worry about. I should be thankful for the opportunity, actually. You all were the first system who’s soul I got to examine up close.” They wouldn’t soon forget the experience. It was one of those moments in training when you feel like the scales have fallen from your eyes and you’ve become truly aware of the size and breadth of the soul. Of course, it was the third or fourth such moment they’d had so far. “The Great Sage always tells me to talk to people. Understand why they chose the shape they did. Understand what satisfies them about it, and what they still think they lack.”

“Is that so? Well, the quetzal was considered divine on the old planet, where my ancestors originated. It felt appropriate. That said, I’m the one most fond of being a bird. We’re mulling over some different shapes for the others, assuming we’re compatible.”

“It can be done in most cases,” Tart said. “I couldn’t say for sure without a close examination.”

“Of course. You know,” the Professor shifted his tail feathers, slipping them more fully through the hole in the back of the bench, “You stood out to me when I met you for the opposite reason. If you don’t mind me saying, you’re the most ordinary-looking sage I’ve ever seen. Certainly more ordinary than your boss.”

Professor Mociño probably had no way of knowing how true that was. The Great Sage’s body was the result of literally centuries of refining the art. A layman could appreciate some of it, but not the history. Some of his most mundane attributes had been novel inventions when he first created them, now common enough to seem dull. Still others were beyond the reach of any other living sage, even now. The Professor must simply see the Great Sage as a rather fanciful animal person, when in reality he was a living testament to the power of the soul— a living miracle. There might never be another sage on his level.

And Tart? Well, the arctic fox shape was extremely common, but their work was more complex than the Professor could tell. Most of it was localized body and pattern shifting, which took effort to learn how to control. About ten percent of patients had something modular. They’d also given their fur a refreshing berry scent, but that wasn’t noticeable unless you got intimately close. The Professor underestimated how odd they were, but was right to downplay it when contrasted with the Great Sage.

“Well, most people can’t reach his level, after all. You’ve probably just never noticed the sages who looked more ordinary.”

“You’re right, of course,” he nodded along with himself. “It made me feel a little better, though. This whole city has, actually.”

“A lot of people who visit say so. So I hear, anyway. I haven’t been around for all that long yet.”

“The fact is,” the Professor went on, “I actually want to ask you something as a tourist, rather than a patient.”

“Looking for good places to eat?”

“If you have them, but I wanted to ask you about the mountain.”

Interesting. The Professor had been upfront that his area of research was gods, but his interview with the Great Sage had focused entire on Starlight itself, considered to be a god of the localized variety. If his interests now included the mountain, then this meeting could end up having meaning beyond a chance encounter.

"Hub-and-Spoke? Are you studying the mountain god, too?”

The Professor straightened a smushed feather on his head-crest. “It’s not my current focus, but I don’t want to go back home without at least looking into it. After all, the mountain is just as much endowed by a god as the city itself. The academic community mostly believes it to be a minor spatial deity, able to connect faraway places.”

“Is that so?” Tart wondered if that was how the witch had gotten their house on the mountainside overnight. It felt a little like cheating, getting the help of a god that isn’t even your witch’s patron. That was none of their business, though.

“Naturally, there’s some interest in harnessing that power, but the mountain god has historically been unresponsive to mortals. Now, while I’ve been in Starlight I’ve noticed that there seems to be a house up there!”

“It’s a witch who moved in a few months ago. You might have seen one of their fliers around here.”

“Fliers? Do they have a business?”

Tart shrugged. “I’m really not sure. It just says they’re a witch of some kind.”

“Well,” said the Professor, “Someone like that must have some insight into the mountain. I need to talk to them.”

It was an auspicious moment. Tart had been trying to come up with an excuse to go talk to the witch— some request to have them fulfill as an excuse to interview them. The main obstacle had been the maddening lack of detail on what they were even claiming to offer in the first place. Now, a new option had revealed itself to Tart, assuming they could figure out a way to insert themself into the Professor’s research. Would a claim of curiosity be enough for him to let them tag along?

“Oh? What’s this?”

Tart returned to the current moment to see Professor Mociño pointing at a tiny bead of white light that was darting erratically through the air just above the middle of the street. It moved in quick bursts, zipping a few inches straight in one direction before stopping dead and pausing for half a second or so. Other passerby took glances at the strange little shape as they passed, but nobody stopped. Things like this could happen by the magic shops, after all. Whatever this was, maybe they’d seen it before.

“A firefly?” That didn’t sound right, given that it was the middle of both the afternoon and the city, but it was viable for a first guess; A conversation starter.

“The way it’s moving, it must be a spirit of some kind. I’ve seen things like this before, always associated with minor gods.”

“The City? …Or the mountain?”

The little spirit made dozens of jumps within a few seconds, and while it seemed as if it was making no permanent progress in any particular direction, its jumps were getting slightly larger each time.

It was easy to forget that the larger sphere of movement also meant that the spirit was gradually getting closer to the bench. Tart felt a very slight stinging sensation as, with one last extra-long dash from its closest point, the tiny thing perched directly on their nose. Since they had a fox’s snout, they had the distance required to see it clearly.

This was definitely not a firefly. There were dozens of legs on the creature, jammed onto a round frame far too small to support so many. Smooth like clay and sporting wings more of light than substance, the creature lacked any mouth or eyes or ears or even antennae. Evolution could not have produced this creature naturally; it’s creator was a being that had seen insects but never understood them, like a child’s drawing.

And it was beautiful. Tart appreciated things that were aesthetically neat, but as a practitioner of magic, they appreciated this ugly, chaotic being as a natural form of the arcane. Spirits like this were exceptionally rare, and the chance to simply observe one at this distance was an astonishingly rare privilege. They didn’t budge a single centimeter, intent on observing it for as long as possible.

Then, the spirit uncoiled and emitted an ear-piercing whine, as loud as someone screaming into Tart’s ear.

“Shit!” They swiped at it with intent to crush and kill, but it evaded their clumsy and flailing grip with ease, taking off again.

The professor leaned sideways, away from Tart’s wild paws. “Goodness. I never knew they could scream like that, and I’m not so sure I wanted to know.” He had caught the fox’s glasses, which had flown off of their face in the havoc, and now handed them back. Tart replaced them, not without embarrassment.

“Magic must be running out in these,” they muttered. The enchantment was supposed to keep in on their face through more than a little flailing. But then, it wasn’t just the glasses that were acting a little off. Their own body was showing signs of stress— Their fur was prickly, and they had an unpleasant knot in their gut. It felt like sage sickness, but that was for people getting their first couple of modifications. Had the spirit done something to their soul? Something that could trouble someone as experienced as themself?

“Do you feel as strange as I do?” Asked the Professor. Nobody else on the street had stopped at all, even after the noise. Surely something that obnoxious couldn’t fail to catch a couple of looks.

“I think so. Something is wrong.”

“That wasn’t a sound. It was… magical. It’s hard to explain right now. Interference.” The highlights of his feathers turned pale and then grew blotches of blue within the green. They recognized the shade— the same feathers that he’d sported when he’d spoken to the Great Sage. He was shifting, bodily if not mentally. That should be normal, but his expression said otherwise.

“I think you’re doing worse than me. That scream affected our souls.”

The Professor answered in a strained voice. “Not the soul. Ah, it’s our brain. Another one of us— that is, me— I was dragged out just now. That’s not how it usually happens.”

This was actually the worse option. Tart was equipped to treat problems of the soul, but the mind was outside their expertise.

“Okay. Let’s get out of here, then. We’ll find you a place to lie down and… oh, crap.”

As they were speaking, Tart had glanced up at where they thought the spirit had gone, and found that they couldn’t be sure if it was still there or not, mostly because there was now a small swarm of the spirits. There were a few dozen of them now, rapidly flickering all over the middle of the street. Once again they were like something a child would make: random pen scribblings on a page. There was no telling if they were going to attack again.

“Weird behavior,” the Professor said. “Unheard of. This would be interesting if I could focus on it.”

One of the spirits screamed again. Then another. And another. Even at a distance, Tart felt like their bones were vibrating when the noise hit, and covering their ears did nothing to deaden it. Magic, not sound. But they were experiencing it as a sound. It was loud, but not so loud that it should cause damage. It was sustained for only a few seconds. It didn’t even leave them with tinnitus.

So what was going on? What kind of magic was it that could disturb the mind and soul like this?

“Hey. You two. You’re having trouble with those things, aren’t you?” It was unfamiliar voice, coming from down the street. The owner was a rabbit man, plump and cream-colored. The tips of his ears were mocha brown and he had toasted patches over the parts of his fur exposed by his suspenders. His white hair, a little lighter than Tart’s own, was long enough to tie in a bun behind his ears. Tart recognized this man from a photograph: this was Theodore Crumble, best known as simply Theo— the owner of Second Steel and the very man that Tart had come downtown to see. He was standing casually a short distance away, having probably just come from his store.

“Careful,” Tart warned him. “They scream. It’s doing something strange.”

The rabbit shrugged. “I can’t hear them. They only hit who they want to hit.”

Tart looked back at the swarm, still picking up in speed and intensity, but keeping a distance for now. This being a targeted attack certainly explained why nobody else seemed to care, but it raised a new question: why were the two of them being targeted? And…”

“How do you know?”

“Come into my shop with me and I’ll tell you. I have no idea what’s going on with your friend, but he obviously needs to get away from those things.”

The Professor nodded. His feathers were starting to change color again, blotches of dark red started bleeding into his plumage. “We should… we should go.” He started attempting to rise from the bench, but his legs slipped out from under him and he tumbled into Tart. Thankfully, their glasses didn’t slip again. With Theo taking the other shoulder, they led the bird a building down the road and into the shop, which looked the same on the outside as any other storefront the city ever grew. All the while, the spirits followed at a distance.

The door was perfectly oiled, swinging smoothly and silently, rare among these old buildings. The front, though, was a little plain for a magic shop. Typically, they had all sorts of fantastical things you could see from the window to entice you in, but Theo kept more mundane objects on this side of the counter. It almost could have been more of an electronics shop, except that the shelves were all a charming wood panel, meant to feel old.

“I wish it was under better circumstances, but welcome to Second Steel. It was a bakery at first, you know, only I was bad at that. I’m a tinkerer at heart, no matter what I try.”

All of this was on his webpage.

“Anyway, come into the back room, away from the windows. I don’t know exactly what those little buddies can do, but they still seem pretty excited to me.” The spirits were starting to touch the glass slightly, resulting in very slight tinkling that echoed through the empty shop. Tart didn’t want to consider if they had enough strength to shatter it.

Through the door with the hand-written ‘Employees Only’ sign, Theo led them to A room with a leather couch and some drawers placed along a wall coated in peeling green paint. This was probably a place for relaxing and storage, rather than any serious work. They helped Professor Mociño fall into the couch, where he could finally settle and rest, but he continued to grumble. His feathers had settled into a pure white, almost disturbingly clean and clear. It looked healthy, at least.

“Are you feeling better, Professor?”

“No!” He suddenly shouted. “None of us have white feathers, and… I hate having to try and explain this. It’s as if we can’t get a handle on who’s in control.” He lifted a wing up, flexing his finger-appendages (standard configuration for most avians, though the language is very subjective). “I’m not moving the arm. You see? Walking around when each leg is a different person is a nightmare.”

They couldn’t really picture what that was like, but the message was clear enough. “Mr. Crumble, do you know anything about those spirits?”

“I do. And you know me, it seems. What were you talking about when the spirits approached you?”

So, he was suspicious of something. If he and the witch were closer friends than expected, this could get complicated. But Theo wasn’t exactly a skillful operator— it was obvious that he was fishing for information from the way he’d asked. Clearly, Theo hadn’t thought as hard as Tart about the art of information gathering.

“Could our topic of discussion have attracted the spirits?”

“Yes, in fact. Those things were sent by a rather paranoid friend of mine.” He sighed and started rooting around in the drawer of a cabinet that stood in the corner the room. It was good that he was helping, but truthfully he didn’t seem as if he cared much at all. His interest was personal, and while he hadn’t said as much, Tart felt certain that the ‘friend’ in question was Undermoon. Nothing happening now was a coincidence.

“Tart,” the Professor spoke again from the couch. He didn’t sound any less irritated.

“What is it?”

“Do you hear that?”

They stood as still as they could and listened. Sure enough, there was a faint rattling noise, like rain on a tarp. They were impressed that the Professor had such good hearing.

“They must have found a way through the front door,” Theo said casually.

“What?”

“Well, this isn’t a bank vault. They could squeeze through the gap in the bottom rather easily.”

“That’s not-

“-Ah, I found my emergency flare.”

From the drawer, he’d pulled a strip of paper with a lavender hue, plus an ordinary cheap lighter. Dangling the paper with two fingers, he lit it on fire and watched as the flames consumed it within a second, letting go only just in time to avoid getting singed.

“There,” he said, “Help should be here in just a moment.”

“Uh huh. Well, in the meantime I want to examine the Professor as a sage.”

“You probably won’t find anything,” the quetzal grumbled from the couch. “You will recall that I told you this is an issue of the mind.”

“I don’t doubt you, but it’s clearly affecting how your soul manifests. I’m just going to take a look. You’re a man of learning, so you understand the value of being thorough, yes?”

He sighed. “If it was just me, I’d never get through teaching classes.”

“You won’t feel anything. Just hold still.”

The Vision of a sage was different from a lot of other magic: it was entirely learned. If you had a soul, you had some ability to tap into it, and that meant it was one’s mental aptitude which decided the talent of a sage. Magic for the masses, one of their old instructors had said. She’d always graded generously.

“What’s it like?” The Professor suddenly asked. His tone was suddenly much lighter and more easy-going. It was probably a different one.

“Sorry?”

“You look with your eyes and you see souls. What’s that like? Or is it not the eyes?”

“It is and it isn’t. Blind sages exist, but they learn to hear a soul. Or touch it. The senses are just a way of interfacing with something that’s always there. Think of it as a change in perspective.”

“I have a different metaphor in mind,” he replied. Fair enough.

His soul was a mess. It was actually upsetting to look at now. Before, it had been beautiful, structured like a set of circles that overlapped harmoniously. The three were neither entirely together or separate, but their flow was perfectly harmonious. Now, they were… tangled. It was as if something solid but flexible had wound itself around the soul, forcing some things together and keeping others apart. They had difficulty perceiving what it reminded them of, physical but ethereal.

“Something has made a mess of your soul,” Tart diagnosed. “The bad news is that I’ve never heard of anything like this. The good news is that we have a Great Sage in the city. That is, if Mr. Crumble’s emergency call doesn’t pan out. If anyone’s seen this, it will be him.”

Theo shrugged. For a moment, nobody spoke or even moved. They all just sat still, listening to the gentle encroachment of the spirits, dreading what would happen if they found another gap.

Aside from Theo, who probably didn’t worry about that at all.

Then there was a crashing noise, like someone had opened a door with too much force. A high-pitched voice started shouting.

“Shoo! Shoo! Get away!”

The noises ceased in short order. Was that really all it took?

One way or the other, when the door opened a few seconds later, the spirits had vanished without a trace. The concerned-looking face on the other side was not one Tart had seen in person or photograph, but a textual description was enough: A grey cat metahuman wearing a purple coat and witch hat— it could only be Undermoon themself, just as expected.

Theo pointed at the professor on the couch. “Your bugs did something strange to that one. He was changing colors all over.”

Cheeks puffing out, the witch leaned forward, braced by the doorframe with one leg raised behind them. “They aren’t bugs. Or mine, for that matter.”

The timbre of voice that the witch had indicated they’d probably gotten some modifications for their vocal chords in the process. The Great Sage always said that Tart was too reluctant to use their Vision as a sage. That they should be looking more closely at people. That was also not in violation of the code of conduct, but it was considered informally rude. Tart did it in this moment only because they had, after all, come here to spy on Undermoon in the first place.

As they thought: vocal chords were shrunk down a little bit further than natural elasticity would allow. The cat eidolon was bisected, so they could have more of a partial look— most people went for just one or the other, but this was hardly unheard-of. This was a person with a fairly elastic mindset, and good soul control, but there wasn’t anything scary here.

And then Undermoon turned and faced them, and Tart saw their left eye. They shut off their vision reflexively.

“You’re a sage, aren’t you?” Said Undermoon.

“Uh?” Their brain was still processing what it had seen. Their heart was pounding, and they put one hand on the wall to keep steady.

“Sages always make that face when they notice my witch’s brand. It’s nothing to worry about.” They winked and stuck out their tongue, giving a cutesy cartoon expression. So that’s what it was? Tart had never seen the soul of a witch before, but they needed to tell the Great Sage about this. He’d know if that was normal or not.

“Focus, my little friend,” Theo interjected, speaking to the cat. “What can you do for him?”

Undermoon looked past Tart to the couch and the Professor’s prone, angry body. He had turned his head in their direction, but it seemed to have taken a lot of concentration to do so. More complex movements were looking like they might be out of the question entirely.

“The spirits were supposed to report back if they discovered anyone following me, not hurt them. The mountain must have given them bad orders.”

“Following you? Who the hell are you?” The Professor’s tone was sharp and warranted, but also not likely to have come from the calm and serious person Tart had been speaking to a moment ago. His selves really were switching around rather quickly. Possibly intermingling with each other more than they normally would. The sage’s intuition said that his own diagnosis had been incorrect: this was a matter of the soul, and the was only following it. It might actually be a good case study for a paper, but mind-soul duality was such a controversial subject in the literature that Tart wasn’t sure they wanted to deal with it.

“I’m, uh, Mx. Pewter Undermoon, the Cosmic witch. Um, at your service!” The cat was shrinking back, clearly unable to handle the modest rage of the bird in front of them.

“You’re the witch? Bloody hell, we were just talking about your damned signs and you do this to me over it!?”

“W-well. I, uh. Um.”

They were freezing up. Not exactly reliable, and Theo was just shrugging and watching. Given the circumstances, Tart was going to have to play mediator, or they’d be here all day. They addressed both parties at the same time.

“Professor Mociño here was asking me about your house on the mountain. He wanted to interview you if possible. I assume that the spirits were attracted by that conversation, despite your intent. Everything sound reasonable so far?”

“Yeah,” the Professor admitted.

Undermoon frowned. “I think so.”

Meeting the Professor might have been a stroke of good fortune. He provided a ready excuse for the spirits apparently picking up on Tart’s spying. But there was no lie in their explanation: the spirits hadn’t just attacked Tart. The Professor’s request really had given them a false alarm. None of this explained the nature of their attack or the reason why Undermoon had sent them in the first place. Their investigation had only just begun; the witch couldn’t possibly have gotten the hint that someone was following them yet. Or, if they had, then they’d know exactly who it was they had to watch out for, and in that case they still wouldn’t need the spirits.

“So, what happened when the spirits found you? And, um, what exactly is the problem with him now?”

“ First, I should tell you that the Professor is a plural system. When we encountered those spirits of yours-

“They’re not… no, sorry. Continue.”

“…When we encountered them, they made a loud noise. Apparently, only he and I could hear it. I felt mild symptoms consistent with soul-modification sickness, but the Professor has been experiencing something more intense. It’s as if various segments of his body are in the jurisdiction of different personalities. Ordinarily, the coloration on his plumage corresponds to various alters, but this white color isn’t one of his usual modifications. It’s almost as if all three have mixed together. When I looked for myself, I found that their soul was… tangled. I don’t know how else to describe it.” And yet, it would be easier than describing the witch’s own soul.

Undermoon frowned a bit. “I don’t know much about souls,” they said.

“That wasn’t a bad description,” said the Professor, who seemed to be calmer again. This was likely a different personality than the one that had been grousing. “It’s a bit clinical, though. Sages think of the soul as a body part, but the word means so much more, culturally.”

“Ah, so I should think of this problem as a witch does.”

He chuckled. “If it helps.”

“I can’t say I entirely appreciate the remark,” Tart said, “But I’m going to take it as a win that we’re all on the same page.”

The witch nodded. “The mountain’s spirits examined your souls in order to decide if you were looking for me. One must have gotten tangled in the Professor’s soul, and the others are worried for it.”

Tart’s resolve failed immediately. “Ridiculous. A soul doesn’t contain that kind of information.”

“Not in your line of work, but remember that these spirits aren’t quite tied to our conceptions of things.”

They were already regretting letting the witch speak. “That doesn’t matter. Even if you don’t know Newton’s laws you still have to think about gravity when you jump off a cliff.”

“Tart,” the Professor interrupted. “There actually is some precedent for what they’re saying. I want to hear them out.”

The fox seethed, but shut up. It was possible for the remedy to be legitimate, even if the reasoning wasn’t. They had to admit that much to themself.

“Fine. What do you recommend?”

“Just a little ritual. Since I don’t happen to have the Vision, I’ll be needing your help.”

That effectively gave Tart veto power if the idea was obviously dangerous. “Agreed.”

“Most wonderful news! Mr. Crumble, do you happen to have a tarp? A shroud? Something fancy and magical-looking is best.”

Theo was leaning against a wall, saying nothing but paying attention. He closed his eyes and thought a moment. “I have a futon in the back room with some bedsheets. Is that good enough?”

“Tch. It will have to do.”

Theo vanished into another room, his shop showing no signs of having recently been assaulted by a magical swarm. “By the way,” the witch said as they waited. “You introduced the Professor, but not yourself. Tart, I think he said?”

Looking at them, the cat studiously avoided making eye contact. “Tartarus Berling. I don’t think we’re close enough for shortening it, Mx. Undermoon.”

“I see.” They pulled the brim of their hat down a little further. When the door opened again, signaling Theo’s return, they spoke as if nothing had happened.

“Simply put, those spirits were created to help me. When the job is finished, they go back to the planet. Or the aether, or whatever you believe. We are simply going to let this one go early.” They spread the (ratty, stained) blanket out to gage it’s size.

"So, you want me to kill it?”

“You can’t kill a spirit the way you can kill a person. It’s more like… clipping the world’s nails. Something like that, anyway. Now, this is the sort of ritual one has to do while hidden, so I’ll need to cover you and the Professor with this.”

Tart stared at the fabric. It was a bedsheet. A plain, green comforter. “Are you serious?”

“It’s not very mystical, I know, but the act of hiding from plain site is still powerful in ritual.”

“Just do it, Tartarus.” the Professor complained. “It’s not like we have to kiss.” Seemed the grumpy one was back.

“Okay, fine. What do I have to do under there?”

“That’s the fun part! Use your Vision to reach out and touch the spirit as it’s tangled in the Professor’s soul. You don’t need to squeeze, but you should be touching it. Then— and you don’t need to do this out loud— you need to confess to it a severing secret.”

This time it was so obvious that the witch was fishing for a reaction that they didn’t take the bait, merely straightened their sideswept hair and waited. Sure enough, the witch got bored of waiting just a few seconds later.

“…That’s a secret which, if revealed, would destroy your relationship with someone you care about. Doesn’t need to be too extreme; this is only a small spirit. Something that would make a coworker stop talking personal matters with you is about the level you need, though more is better.”

“You think I have a secret like that?”

“Everyone does. If you thought your mother’s dress was ugly and you told her it was nice— that would be enough. And you only need to think it so that the spirit knows. The universe will remember your confession, but what is the universe going to do about it?”

The entire situation felt like a trap. Too bad there was no way out but through.

Kneeling down by the prone Professor, they allowed the cat to throw the heavy blanket over both of them. It was musty and heavy and required holding the thing up with one hand so that they could breathe, but it did the one thing it apparently needed to do: cover them in darkness.

The Professor’s left eye focused on them. “Just relax,” he said. “This should only take a minute, right?”

“Right.”

They looked again as a sage. There it was: a tripartite soul, all bound up in a ribbon of spiritual energy. Unpleasant and unnatural. If the witch was right, then this energy was actually the aethereal presence of the spirit itself, stretched and distended like some kind of magical noodle. Looking closer, they saw it: the string that bound the bird’s soul was a little more solid than it first appeared, and all along its length were tiny legs that wriggled in a jerky, pained-looking way. Like a sea turtle stuck in a plastic ring, the spirit was no happier about it’s situation than the Professor.

They reached out gingerly, worried that it would become agitated when they drew close, but it didn’t. It simply stretched the nearest leg out towards their finger. It was the slightest touch in a plane beyond the physical. They couldn’t even feel it.

Can you hear me, little guy? They thought. The spirit wriggled just a little. It was impossible to say if it was a response, and even if it was, they didn’t understand it.

I hear you can’t die. Reminds me of my boss. He’s incredible; the Great Sage of Rain, the one who conquered aging and death. He’s also dangerous. Terrifying. That’s why, as soon as I was accepted as his apprentice, I got an offer to spy on him, and I accepted it. I report everything he does, all the contacts he makes, and anything else that seems dangerous in this city, all to the Order, just in case he ever changes his mind about being friendly with them. Do you know what the Order is, little guy? They look after things, all over the world. They make sure nothing gets out of hand. What right do I have to look down on that witch, eh? I made the choice to betray the one person I really respected. I’d do it again, though. There needs to be someone to stop him if he ever takes a wrong turn.

And then the spirit was gone. Professor Mociño’s soul bounced back into it’s normal configuration like an elastic band. He drew in a sharp breath as his feathers turned blue all at once, no doubt giving him one last bout of sage’s sickness.

Tart threw the blanket aside, letting the Professor see himself with his mundane vision, though he doubtless had already started feeling more intact. The whole thing had only taken a minute.

“How do you feel?”

“Fine! Perfectly fine.” He demonstrated by swinging his legs up and over so that he was sitting upright, accidentally almost kicking Tart in the face. “It’s as if nothing happened in the first place.” He sprung to his feet with gusto, and immediately doubled over and threw up.

Theo had a cloth that could clean anything. Even clothes, as it turned out. Very useful little thing, and Tart even considered getting it for themself. Of course, they’d need something to trade or barter, so it would have to wait. The Professor stayed sitting on the couch for the duration of the cleanup, giving his head time to clear. Sage’s sickness was harmless, and it would pass in an hour or so.

Nonetheless, Undermoon stepped up to him with intent, a look of contrition on their face. “Professor Mociño,” they said, “I want to apologize. Everything that happened to you today was my fault entirely.” It had the sound of something they’d practiced in their head, word for word, before saying it.

“Quite alright. It was all an accident, after all.”

Tart almost spoke up. They were nowhere near as willing to forgive and forget, but it wasn’t their business.

The cat tilted their head, ironically not unlike a dog. “Are you sure? You were… right to be upset with me before.”

“Red was just frustrated. He’s a sweetheart when you get to know him. Keeps us from forgetting the important things. But listen, if you want to make it up to me, then agree to my original plan! I want to learn about the mountain, and it sounds like you have quite a relationship with it.”

“Oh, I’d be delighted! Is that your names? Red and… Green and such?”

“Red is Red, but green is named Orchard, and I’m Cobalt. You don’t need to worry about it, though.” He counted them off on his fingers, though there was no reason to think they had any particular order.

“I want to be polite to you all if we’re going to be friends. Ah, but, today is actually not much of a good day for it. I have some business this evening. Maybe I can meet you here tomorrow?”

He smiled an even wider beak-smile than Tart thought was possible. “That’s fine by me, but I’ll insist on holding you to your commitment.”

Theo shook his head. “Unless you have a payment for me, I’d rather not have to deal with any more of this tomorrow.”

The witch looked mock-offended. “Mr. Crumble! Of course I’ll have a payment. Peanut butter this time?”

The rabbit smiled broadly. “You know me so well.”

Regardless, he was eager for everyone to file out now that he’d done his civic duty. That was fine, but Tart’s mission was to gather information on the witch’s activities, and they weren’t satisfied yet. After they all left, the Professor and the witch split, with the former turning right and the latter turning left, towards the mountain-side exit of the city. Tart waved goodbye to the Professor and went with Undermoon, pretending to be on their way home. It was a good opportunity for some final, probing small talk.

“How did you get to the store so quickly, anyway?” Tart asked.

“Ah, the mountain put me in Mr. Crumble’s closet. We’ve got a link set up. I’m walking back manually just for the exercise.”

“I thought you had things to do tonight.”

“I do. I just… well, I need some time to decompress. I really am going to keep my promise!”

“I believe you. But, tell me: why did you come to Starlight? For the mountain?”

“Not at all. My master is the waxing crescent moon, after all. I came to Starlight because it felt right. A place like this should have a witch.” At last, they met Tart’s gaze and held it, just for a second or so. Their eye looked ordinary from here. No sign of the horrors that Tart knew existed within them.

“A special contact lens,” they suddenly said.

“Hm?”

“That’s why it looks like a normal eye. I’m hiding it, even though everyone knows what I am. I like being different, but I don’t like the idea of people knowing it. Isn’t that funny?”

The two had reached the last turn before the city turned to fetal buildings and wreckage. Leftovers that always marked the edges. Things could eventually populate here if the city wanted, but it seemed to have some limit to its size, or at least a limit to how big it wanted to be. It made no sense to continue down this road unless you were actually planning to leave the city— It wasn’t even stable enough to squat in.

“Why are you telling me, then?”

“I’m not sure. I suppose because I can tell you already hate me? I have nothing to lose.”

Tart wanted to say ‘I don’t hate you!’ And it wouldn’t be a lie, but it also wouldn’t be the truth. Not emotionally. Not for either of them.

Instead, they decided to be kind: they answered the question. “The reason there are no other witches here is that the city becomes afraid of them very easily. It’s not fair, or rational, but when someone powerful moves close to the city, it starts to affect things.”

“The mountain told me the same thing,” said the witch. “It doesn’t want to get into a fight with the city, because gods in conflict are… a problem. The Order would have to get involved, I imagine.”

Tart didn’t flinch. Didn’t twitch even a single strand of fur on their face. They’d been magically conditioned not to have such reactions. “Maybe so, but I’m just thinking as a resident.”

“I’ll tell you what I told the mountain, then: I’ll think about it!” They waved and set off down the road out of the city. They didn’t even look back once. Tart watched their back for a time, but they really did want to get home before dark. They had reports to write, both for the Great Sage and their handlers.